


murphy's law

by Please_Tommy_Please



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Butterfly Effect, Chaos Theory, Confusion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Moments of happiness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overthinking, Poor Thomas, Protective Newt, Responsibility, Second Chances, Thomas is honestly a mess, Thomas thinks too much, Time Travel, Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-06-27 21:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15693927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Please_Tommy_Please/pseuds/Please_Tommy_Please
Summary: Murphy's Law - A supposed law of nature expressing that, "Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong."Day after day at the Safe Haven leaves Thomas feeling trapped and more depressed than ever. His mind lingers in the past, but memories are only temporary. And these are the only memories Thomas has. Forgetting them—forgettinghim—isn't an option.Or,Thomas gets a second chance, and he's determined not to waste it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this first chapter, the choppy, short writing style is intentional. The events through this story are told from Thomas's point of view, and, at least right now, his mental state is jarring and all over the place.
> 
> His thoughts overlap each other multiple times and often cut off without explanation. This is also intentional.

 It rained last night.

The humidity makes it difficult to grab a decent breath. His side throbs and his lungs scream, but he doesn't slow his stride.

His eyes have long since adjusted to the cloying darkness of the night. He runs along the shore, shoes sinking into the sand with every step.

He stumbles.

Chokes on a breath. Then regains his pace and keeps going.

Running. There's something almost therapeutic about it; in the way he can focus on his burning lungs and aching legs.

It's something to occupy his mind other than his thoughts. Thoughts which start out innocent enough, but almost always turn on him, eventually.

Because he’s starting to heal.

He's starting to forget, his mind attempting to shield him from the trauma.

_Which leg was the one with the limp? It was the right… right? No, no it was definitely the left._

He stumbles again. This time, he falls.

The sand cushions his fall, but in a way that sickens him in its familiarity.

Sand. Sand _everywhere._

Always _fucking_ sand.

He's tired of it.

 _Get up, keep going. Keep going_ , his mind urges.

“I can't,” he rasps.

_You can. Get up._

He swallows. His throat feels like sandpaper.

A husky laugh rises in his throat like bile.

He moves to push himself up. His arms shake from the strain, and his old bullet wound makes itself known with a sharp lance of pain through his torso.

“I can't!” he screams. “Don't you get that?”

_What did his laugh sound like? Don't you remember? Which leg had the limp? He's gone he's gone he's gone he's g_

_Get up. Keep going._

I _can’t_!”

He can't, but he does. He staggers to his feet, hands trembling, and runs.

He runs until the sky starts to brighten. Until Minho comes looking for him, as he does every morning.

“You stupid shank,” Minho says, eyes bright with concern, and drags him back to reality. To responsibilities. To a life that seems to slowly be losing its meaning.

Every day is the same, but the hollow feeling in Thomas’s chest doesn't leave, no matter how much he tries to run from it.

He's starting to forget.

And it's breaking him. Piece by piece.

* * *

He rarely sleeps.

He tries to run from that, too.

Tonight it decides to finally catch up to him.

He's exhausted himself to the point where dreams evade him.

When he wakes up, it's dark.

 _Something is different,_ a voice whispers in the back of his mind.

The too-soft cot beneath him is hard and unyielding. His back aches and his neck twinges.

_Did I fall on the floor last night?_

The normally warm, often muggy air is replaced with a chill that seeps into his very bones.

He inhales, and the smell of metal and dust and oil floods his lungs.

_Something is different._

His eyes seem to refuse to adjust to the dim lighting.

He sits up. Holds his hand in front of his face. If he squints, he can just make out his fingers wiggling.

_Something is different._

He gropes at the ground beneath him, ready to push himself to his feet.

His fingers curl around the cool metal grate, small holes giving him grip.

_Something is wrong._

The cage jolts then begins to move. It steadily picks up speed, a _whirr_ to accompany the acceleration.

“What?” he whispers.

_Get out._

“Where am I?”

_It's a dream it's a dream it's a dream it's_

_Okay, so wake_ up _, for fuck’s sake!_

The whirring gets louder. He's going up. Fast. Too fast.

All at once, the Box jerks to a halt.

“No. No no no.”

He's had dreams like this before.

There are always two common themes: that he never sees Newt. And that he wakes up.

A sliver of light slashes through the darkness. It widens, and he has to shield his eyes from the piercing brightness of it.

He pulls his arm away before his eyes fully adjust, and the light burns, makes his eyes water. Figures loom above him, pressing in on all sides and craning their heads down to get a good look.

His head spins with the familiarity of it all.

 _Congrats. You've finally lost it completely,_ he thinks.

He stares, shocked into silence as the murmurs begin to pick up in volume.

“Go get him,” someone calls out.

And then Gally drops down into the Box with him, making it rattle.

Gally leers at him, face smeared with dirt and eyes glittering.

“Day one, Greenie. Rise ‘n shine.” His breath smells absolutely rancid.

“You seriously need to—”

Gally grabs him by the lapels of his shirt and yanks him up, out of the room. He hits the dirt, hard.

And it hurts.

_You can't feel pain in dreams, can you?_

The thought is fleeting, and he struggles to stand, his legs nearly buckling beneath him.

His scans the crowd of Gladers.

His eyes find Chuck and linger. He rips his gaze away and finds Alby. Gally. Frypan. Everyone. All of the people he loved, the ones he saved and the ones he failed. All except Newt.

“Where—” he starts, but he chokes on his sentence, emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

_See? He's not here. It's a dream, you'll wake up at any moment now._

“Welcome to the Glade,” Alby says, but it barely even registers in Thomas's mind.

And it's the same. It's all _exactly_ the same. Except for Newt.

_He's not here._

Hopelessness curls around his chest like a vice.

_You're dreaming, it's just a dream._

_It can't be. It's too real. There's no way._

“Look at the Greenie. Looks like he's about to pass out,” Gally says, snickering.

_That's not what he said the first time, is it?_

“I can't remember,” Thomas says, and he surprises himself by speaking the words instead of just thinking them. His eyes dart over to Alby.

“It's normal. Same thing with all of us,” Alby says, “your name, though. That'll come back in a few days. It's the one thing they let us keep.”

And that's when Thomas notices the difference. He hasn't been thrown in the Slammer, and yet he's having the same conversation he'd had with Alby.

_You're changing things already._

_Is that such a bad thing? It's a dream anyway, what does it matter?_

Thomas's throat threatens to close up on him. “What’s happening?”

Alby smiles. “All right, everyone, back to work! You can pester the Greenbean later.”

The Gladers slowly disperse back to their jobs. Thomas’s gaze falls on Chuck and he watches the boy all the way back to the Homestead.

“—you get me?”

Thomas blinks and forces himself to look away from the crooked building. “Uh. What?”

Alby shakes his head. “You'd better listen, shuck-face, cuz I'm not gonna repeat myself a third time.”

Thomas nods.

Alby seems satisfied enough, for he starts talking again, gesturing around the Glade.

“We eat here. Sleep here. Grow our own food, build our own shelter. Whatever we need, the Box provides. The rest is up to us.”

 _It's the same. It's_ exactly _the same_.

“The Box,” Thomas deadpans. _Dreams are never this vivid._

Alby gives him an odd look. “Yeah. They send it up every month with fresh supplies and a new Greenie. This month, that’s you. Congratulations.”

Thomas blinks. He looks around for some sort of error, hoping for something to jump out, to make it more obvious that this, in fact, is not real.

The blood drains from Thomas's face. His breath catches, and he stares.

Newt grins.

“Hey, you alright, Alby?” he says, and Thomas doesn't _have_ to try to remember what his voice sounds like anymore because he's _here_ and _alive_.

Thomas stares. Logically, it doesn't add up. What Thomas is visibly seeing versus his own thoughts, it doesn't make sense.

 _This...this can't be_ real _...right? There's no way. Right?_

Alby laughs. “Greenbean, meet Newt.”

“You alright there, Greenie? Look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost,” Newt says, and he laughs at his own joke, offering a hand for Thomas to shake.

 _I have,_ he thinks, and a choked noise escapes him.

“You...you’re…” _alive._

Newt lowers his hand and a concerned frown slowly creeps onto his face.

And Thomas has to do something. _Something_ , because Newt is worried and Alby is starting to look suspicious, and _maybe it's not a dream._

Newt speaks up again, voice hesitant. “Hey Alby, I'm gonna take him to the Med-jacks. Have him lay down before he passes out or something.”

Then there's a hand against Thomas's lower back, guiding him in the direction of the Med-shack, and Thomas's mind is a shitstorm of thoughts and questions.

_You can save him._

_It's not real._

_This is different, it's different, you're changing things._ Stop  _changing things._

_He doesn't have to die. None of them do._

“It's not real, none of this is real. You're dreaming, Thomas, it's just a dream,” he mumbles to himself, because he's starting to _hope_ , and if he wakes up from this, he thinks he'll shatter completely.

“You've remembered your name already?” Newt says, and he sounds impressed. “Usually it takes a few days.”

“Wh...what?”

Newt continues, but his palm against his back is a spot of warmth seeping through his shirt, and Thomas finds himself so focused on it that he misses Newt’s words entirely.

He's been doing that a lot, especially with Minho, blanking out to the point where he misses entire conversations.

_Focus, idiot._

“What?” he says again, praying that Newt will repeat himself, if only so that Thomas can hear his voice.

“You sure you're okay, Thomas?”

All at once, Thomas can _distinctly_ remember the scuffle, the way the knife plunged into Newt’s chest, the way blood seeped onto Thomas's hands, the way Newt paused, whispered “Tommy”, about to say more, but then collapsed.

The way he died, right there on the cold, filthy ground, and it had been no one’s fault but Thomas's, in _so many_ ways.

_I could've saved you._

Thomas squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment, takes a steadying breath, and opens them again.

Even without looking at him, Thomas can feel Newt’s gaze, and Newt begins to slow his pace. Thomas does too. He has to force himself to look over, to meet Newt’s eyes.

His expression is set, an odd mix of seriousness and pity that Thomas can't recall seeing before.

“I can promise you right now, this is real. You're not dreaming. I know it seems bad, so bad you almost wish you _were_ dreamin’, but it gets better, I promise. First Day was scary for all of us. But I can tell you're strong. You'll be alright.”

And Thomas knows he doesn't have a choice. “I know.”

Newt eyes him. “There's somethin’ different about you, Greenie. You're not like the others.”

Thomas shakes his head. Takes a deep breath. “So. This is real.”

“Yeah, pretty bloody real.”

“Okay,” Thomas says, and he begins thinking.

* * *

Newt drags Thomas to his arrival bonfire, despite Thomas's protests.

“It's _for you_ , Greenie. Of course you have to go. No fussin’, come on.”

Thomas frowns but allows Newt to steer him in the direction of the large fire and crowd of boys. Newt pushes him down to sit, then removes his hand from Thomas's shoulder.

“You stay here. I'm gonna go get us some drinks.”

“Sure,” Thomas says, and he cranes his head over his shoulder to watch Newt approach Frypan with a beaming smile.

Thomas's eyes drift around the bonfire, resting on each Glader, the ones he can name and the ones he can't.

His heart pangs for all of them, named and nameless.

Thomas's gaze finds Chuck. The boy is settled near the fire, knife in one hand and a chunk of wood in the other.

A hollow feeling spreads through his chest when he realizes that he hasn't spoken to Chuck yet. Rather than go with Chuck to set up his hammock, Thomas had gone with Newt to the Med-shack. And, along with that, Thomas avoided his not-so-friendly encounter with Gally by the Doors.

In all honesty, Thomas had completely forgotten about it up until now.

 _You need to start thinking about things. Start prioritizing_ , he admonishes, then stands.

He has to fix it and talk to Chuck.

Thomas walks over and settles down beside him. Chuck glances up, then looks back down at his figurine, eyes narrowed in concentration.

“That looks really good,” Thomas says, by way of starting a conversation. Once again, Chuck glances up, though this time he looks surprised.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” he says. Then looks Thomas over. “You're the new Greenie.”

“Yep.”

Chuck’s frown deepens. “You sure don't _act_ like a Greenie.”

Now it's Thomas's turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

Chuck shrugs, and he returns to his carving. “I don't know… You just seem really calm for all of this.”

Thomas almost represses his laugh, then decides to let it loose anyway. “Trust me, man, I'm _not_ calm. At all.”

Chuck gives a small laugh of his own, a smile curving his lips. “Well, you're doing better than I did, anyway. I was the Greenie before you.”

“I kn—”

A laugh rings out, cutting Thomas off. A wave of relief crashes through him.

_Think before you speak, or you're gonna ruin this whole thing._

_There's no guarantee that this is even_ real _, it doesn't matter what I say._

“Bloody hell, Thomas, you don't listen too well, do you?” Newt shakes his head with another small laugh. “We’re gonna have to fix that.”

Thomas looks up at Newt and snorts. “Sure.”

Newt pops his hip out, arms folded across his chest. The familiar pose makes Thomas's heart ache.

“I suppose I'll take it easy on ya, First Day ‘n all. I see you've met Chuckie.”

“Yeah,” Thomas says, and directs a smile in Chuck’s direction. “He's a pretty cool dude.”

Chuck beams, and Newt settles down on Thomas's other side, taking a long pull of his drink.

“You're cool, too. Y’know, for a Newbie,” Chuck says, and his following laugh holds a tone of uncertainty, as though he's worried Thomas will take offense to the joke.

“Thanks, Chuck,” Thomas says sarcastically. “Way to make a Greenie feel welcome.”

Chuck smiles goofily.

Thomas turns to look at Newt, only to see that he's already staring at him, gaze scrutinizing.

Newt shakes his head and takes another gulp of his drink. “Ya know, I know I said it before, but there's somethin’ different about you.”

Thomas glances back at Chuck, who's nodding in agreement.

“It's _awesome_ ,” Chuck states. “You're so much nicer than the rest of these shanks.”

Newt’s curious gaze morphs into a look of mock offense, and he leans across Thomas to swat Chuck on the arm.

Thomas barely refrains from tensing at the close proximity, and soon enough Newt is leaning away, leaving a small gap between them.

The gap is small, but to Thomas, it's universes and stars and galaxies all rolled into one. It's a living, breathing entity that Thomas can feel with every inhale and exhale.

“Here,” Newt says suddenly, shoving the jar at Thomas. “Put some hair on your chest.”

Thomas eyes the brown liquid suspiciously, almost tasting the bitterness already. Still, both Chuck and Newt are looking at him, expecting, so Thomas takes a drink.

He grimaces, but this time he manages to swallow it, refusing to embarrass himself already.

He hands the jar back to Newt.

Newt looks at him. Then Chuck. Then back to Thomas.

He shakes his head, sets the jar on the ground, and reaches down to rub his ankle. “You're somethin’ else.”

The bitter taste of the alcohol lingers on the back of his tongue like bile, and suddenly Thomas feels sick.

This is when he's supposed to start asking questions about the Maze.

They sit in a blanket of silence, despite the whooping cheers and drunken shouts of the other celebrating Gladers. A few minutes pass before Chuck pockets the figurine and the knife and he stands, walking off in Frypan’s direction.

Thomas is done screwing stuff up. At least this way he'll have an excuse for having this knowledge later.

“So what's out there?” he asks, voice little more than a rasp, and he gestures towards the looming wall nearest to them.

If Thomas didn't know Newt as well as he does, he would've missed the way Newt’s eyes flash, the way his fingers pause and hover over his ankle for just a moment before returning to their ministrations.

“We call it the Maze,” Newt says, a tone of hesitation entering his voice.

“Is that the way out?” Thomas asks, hoping to push the conversation to an end sooner.

Newt blinks in surprise. “Yeah, actually. We've got Runners who've been mapping it for years trying to find the exit. Haven't had much luck.”

“‘Runners’?” Thomas echoes.

Newt nods, eyes fixed on his leg. “Yep. The only shanks brave enough and fast enough to go out there. It's dangerous, not just anyone is up to it. Only Runners are allowed in the Maze. Which means you'd do well to stay away from it.”

“Oh,” Thomas says. A beat of silence passes. “Okay.”

Newt glances at him. “No more questions?”

“Not...not really, no.”

“...Good that.”

The gap between them feels larger than ever. Not only is it physical, Thomas feels the emotional gap as well. More than anything, Thomas wants to bridge that gap, to press his shoulder against Newt’s and listen to his stories from before Thomas ever showed up in the Glade, the way they used to. He wants that hollow feeling in his chest to go away.

Thomas looks at Newt.

Because he  _is_ Newt, but he's not _Thomas's_ Newt, and Thomas can hardly bear to even think about it. He has so many memories of them—various moments over the six months they spent trying to save Minho pop into his head—but this version of Newt hasn't experienced _any_ of it. It's as if it's been erased, and Thomas doesn't think he can fix it.

This isn't his Newt.

This might as well be a stranger.

“Well.” Newt clears his throat. “I suppose I ought to go introduce you to everyone.”

He pushes himself up and offers Thomas a hand. “C’mon.”

Instead of protesting, Thomas follows without complaint.

Newt introduces him to the Builders, to Winston, to Clint and Jeff, to Ben and Minho and the rest of the Runners, and whoever else they pass by.

Thomas repeats the names—new and old—in his head on a loop, and he makes no comment about wanting to be a Runner.

Gally staggers into him and almost knocks him off his feet anyway.

Thomas steps into the wrestling ring with dread sinking in his stomach like a ball of lead.

_Let Gally win, let Gally win, let Gally win._

Thomas thinks they could be friends this time around. Having Gally’s friendship could be the very thing that would save Chuck’s life. So Thomas is bound and determined to make it happen. Even if that means humiliating himself and losing.

His plan to lose goes to shit the second Gally charges at him. Thomas's instincts take over and, instead of allowing himself to be bowled over, he side-steps, and Gally stumbles as he slows himself down. The Gladers around them whoop and shout.

Gally runs at him again. Thomas dodges again. He finds himself winning without meaning to.

Then, lying on the ground, Gally kicks Thomas’s feet out from under him.

Thomas doesn't have time to catch his fall before the side of his head hits the ground, much like before. A white-hot flare of pain ricochets through his head.

A pained noise pulls from his throat, and instead of his name flashing in his mind, his head just pounds. He pushes himself up, wincing.

“You okay, Greenie?”

“Stop calling me Greenie. It’s Thomas,” he snaps unthinkingly. Then clamps his mouth shut.

Silence reigns.

Then Alby cheers, and the tense silence fades into something forgotten as Thomas is shoved to the center of a mass of screaming boys, holding their drinks to the sky in some sort of odd toast.

Thomas refuses a second drink, his head still throbbing from the blow.

Long fingers curl around his wrist and pull him through the crowd, weaving through the drunken Gladers.

Once they reach the edge of the group, they stop.

“Ya sure you're alright? You hit your head pretty bloody hard.”

Of course it's Newt. It's _always_ Newt.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Thomas says. Then thinks for a moment.

He raises a hand to the back of his head and exaggerates a grimace of pain. “I mean, it might be a good idea for me to go to bed.”

“Of course,” Newt agrees. “I'll show you your hammock.”

* * *

He doesn't sleep. His insomnia from the Safe Haven seems to have carried over, along with his memories.

But his strength. His endurance. His scars. Nothing physical made the transfer like his mind and mental state did.

He is—his body is—exactly the same as the first time. And it scares him to death.

 _Your memories, you've got those,_ he reminds himself. _That'll have to be enough._

Thomas lays on his hammock, the gentle rocking motion making tired, fogging his thoughts over with the pull of sleep.

So he sits up, swings his legs over the side of the hammock, and makes his way towards the Deadheads, hoping the walk will clear his mind a bit.

“I can save him,” he whispers. “I _can_.”

And he could. If he plays his cards right.

Then that small voice in the back of his head decides to pipe up.

_But what about everyone else?_

Thomas pauses. _I can save them, too._

 _If you start changing everything_ , the voice murmurs, _you might not even have the chance to save him. If you_ had _to choose between Chuck or Newt, who would it be?_

And that's what brings him to his knees, muffling his sobs with his hand and fighting the scream that bubbles up in his throat.

That's the moment he _knows_ for certain that it isn't a dream. Because no dream feels like this.

_You can't save everyone. You have to choose._

_I can't._

_Then they both die, all of them do. Again._

_I can change it._

_You can't change what's already happened._

_It_ hasn't _happened yet._

_You have to choose._

_I'm not gonna choose who lives and who dies. I'm not gonna play God._ Thomas knows his choice. And suddenly his sole purpose in life is getting his friends out of this hell alive. All of them.

Even if that means he himself dies instead.

For Newt, for Minho, for Chuck, for Gally, for Alby, Winston, Frypan, hell, even Teresa, Thomas would die a hundred times over.

_Teresa comes up soon. What are you gonna do?_

The thought comes from nowhere, striking Thomas so hard that the tears stop and his mind spins.

He thinks. He thinks and thinks and thinks but in the end, he still can't decide whether to forgive her or not. So many people died at the Right Arm because of her.

Regardless of whether he forgives her, he knows he doesn't trust her. Will probably never trust her again.

But he needs her. Because although Thomas's life force _is_ the cure, he doesn't know how to access it. He can bleed for Newt and the rest of humanity as much as he'd like, but it means _nothing_ unless Teresa or Mary can distill it into a proper serum.

And for Mary to stay alive long enough for that to happen, Thomas needs to get through to Teresa.

All at once, Thomas's thoughts hit a wall. A decision that he can't make heads or tails of.

_If you want to convince Teresa not to betray you, you have to tell her. Tell her everything._

But the more rational part of his argues that telling anyone would be a hazard, a risk that Thomas doesn't know if he can take. Not if it means more death.

No one else deserves to die because of him.

_What am I supposed to do?_

Thomas is mere seconds from vocalizing the words, some sort of pathetic prayer, when the sound of rustling footsteps catches his ear.

He scrambles to his feet and darts for the cover of a large tree, peering out and squinting to get a look at the Glader causing all of the noise.

Thomas quickly realizes that it's not one Glader, but two.

Both of them are attempting to be sneaky, shushing each other and muffling their laughs as they trek further through the trees.

Thomas is intrigued. _This is new._

The two Gladers stop, and Thomas can just make out their dark shapes.

“Shh, you're gonna get us caught again.”

Thomas doesn't recognize the voice.

“Last time was all _your_ fault, Ben,” says the second Glader, and there's a voice that Thomas couldn't forget if he tried.

But Gally sounds different. Thomas has never heard Gally sound _happy_ , but he thinks that's the emotion in his voice.

_Gally? Ben and Gally? What are they doing out here?_

Thomas’s question is answered when Gally is cut off mid-sentence by Ben kissing him.

Thomas thinks he probably could've stomped through the Deadheads screaming and the two of them wouldn't have noticed his presence. He’s quiet on the way back to his hammock anyway, not wanting to wake any of the others.

He drags his blankets out of the hammock and arranges them on the ground. Though less comfortable, it's stable.

And if Thomas needs anything right now, it's stability.

Thomas lays down, and spends the rest of the night brainstorming how to keep Ben alive this time.

By the time the sun begins its ascent, Thomas has a rough outline of a plan, one so ridiculous that he might actually be Banished for it. And a backup plan, but the actual chances of it working are slim to none.

But the only other option is to tell Newt and Alby that this has all happened before. Thomas is fairly certain he'd only get locked in the Slammer for his troubles. Maybe even Banished, if they think he's working for WCKD.

 _Gally’s gonna kill me_ , Thomas thinks. The thought brings a smile to his face.

“What’re you smiling about? Better question: why are you on the ground?”

Alby sounds faintly amused, and Thomas sits up, his joints popping.

“Couldn't sleep,” Thomas answers with something akin to a shrug, and Alby nods.

“That'll happen,” he says, and he sounds more understanding about it than Thomas had been expecting. “But we all pull our own weight around here. So you'd better sleep nice and good tonight, cuz you're gonna be helpin’ out around here just like everyone else.”

 _There_ it is.

“Got it,” Thomas replies, and he shoves himself to his feet. He runs over his plan in his head.

“Hey, Alby?”

Alby breathes out something close to a sigh. “Yes?”

“When do the Runners leave?”

Suddenly, Alby looks much more invested in the conversation. He frowns deeply. “How do you know about the Runners? I never explained the jobs to you yesterday.”

For a brief flash of a moment, Thomas panics. Then he is struck with the realization that he doesn't even _have_ to lie.

“Newt was telling me about it at the bonfire.” Thomas had been hoping that repeating that talk would pay off. He seems to be in luck.

Alby nods, slowly, and the quizzical looks eases up. “They should be getting ready to go right about now, actually.”

_Shit. That's not enough time._

“Can I go talk to them first?”

The confused expression returns, accompanied this time by faint agitation. “Greenie, they've gotta do their job. Don't need you getting in the way.”

“Right. No, you're totally right,” Thomas says. He shakes his head for good measure. “Sorry.”

“It's fine. Now, come on, got somethin’ to show you.”

Alby leads him to the wall, talking the whole time, explaining the three rules of the Glade, which he didn't have the time to explain the day before. Thomas doesn't bother listening, instead opting to keep a close eye on the closed Doors nearest to the Homestead, the ones that Ben and Minho should be exiting soon enough.

 _This isn't gonna work_ , Thomas realizes. _I've got to get away from Alby._

“Hey, Alby?”

Alby stops, gives him a dirty look. Thomas must've interrupted him.

“I, uh…” _Think, Thomas, think._ He runs his hand through his hair, and his fingers brush over the knot on his head, tender to the touch. “I hit my head pretty hard last night at the fire. And I- I'm kinda feeling a bit sick.”

Thomas _is_ beginning to feel sick, not because he hit his head, but because his Plan A is already not looking too good.

Alby looks him over. “You _do_ look like crap,” he muses. “Newt took you to the Med-shack yesterday. Remember where that is?”

Thomas nods. _Please don't come with me, please don't come with me..._

“Good. Head over there. Clint should be awake, he’ll check you out.” Then Alby’s waving him off. “We can do this later. I've got stuff to do. I'll come find you around lunch. When you're done with the Med-jacks, go find Newt. He’ll start tryin’ you out for jobs.”

Thomas forces himself to walk, not run, to the Med-shack. Once he's out of Alby’s line of sight, he breaks into a sprint, racing to the Map Room.

Except there's no one there.

Which means—

The rumbling screech of the Doors sliding open sliced through the air like the blade of a knife.

“ _Fuck_.”

* * *

He runs back to the main clearing, but he already knows he's too late. Sure enough, when he turns to look at the Doors, they're wide open, and there's no one standing in front of them.

Thomas missed his chance.

“Plan B, then,” he mutters.

A scratching, shuffling noise gets his attention. He turns around, only to see one of WCKD’s little spies—a beetle blade—clinging to the trunk of the tree behind him.

And that's when Thomas realizes, _I_ can't _tell anyone about this. Because then WCKD will find out. Then any upper-hand I've got will be gone._

So Thomas can't mention the time travel thing. To _anyone_.

 _I'll just have to wait until we get to the Facility. The Scorch at the_ latest _._

“Thomas? What’re you doin’ standing around?”

Thomas shuts his eyes for a brief moment. Takes in a deep, shaky breath.

 _Was Newt on top of me like this last time? It's like everywhere I freaking turn, he's_ there _. I can't get away from him._

And as much as Thomas had missed that smile, every time he sees him it's like a knife stabbing him in the chest.

 _How adequate_ , Thomas thinks grimly, turning to face the second-in-command.

“I was, uh...just coming back from the Med-shack. Alby—”

“The Med-shack?” Newt says, brow furrowing cutely. “What for?”

“My head. It was just hurting a bit, but I'm fine now.” No use in making him unnecessarily concerned, especially with the stress that would be thrown onto him in a few hours.

_Teresa's coming up soon._

The rest of the Glade is starting to wake up.

“Whatever you say, shank,” Newt shrugs. “Get your name on the wall, then?”

“Not yet,” Thomas answers, “Alby said he'd grab me at lunch and have me do it. But he told me to find you and that you’d help me see what job works out.”

Newt cocks his head to the side, expression thoughtful. “Then, I suppose we can start testing ya. Come on, mate.”

Thomas follows him over to the Gardens, where Newt stops and greets Zart, who's already hard at work.

“This is Zart. He's the Keeper of the Track-Hoes,” Newt explains.

“Got him starting with us today?” Zart asks, glancing up from the soil.

“Don't think he'd do too well with the Slicers or the Sloppers,” Newt shrugs and Zart mumbles something of an agreement.

Newt approaches one of the many tall trellises made of thick branches and launches into a long, detailed explanation.

Thomas focuses more on the sound of his voice than the actual words.

“Well?” Newt prompts, and Thomas jolts, looking up from the ground.

Newt laughs. “Grab a shovel, shank, and get to work.”

The next few hours pass with light conversation and a few sarcastic remarks on Newt’s part.

Thomas finds it shockingly easy to fall back into the groove of things.

Lunch comes and goes, and Thomas etches his name into the wall, right beneath Minho’s. He returns the knife to Alby and walks back over to the Gardens.

The sun bears down on them. Thomas rolls his sleeves. Newt shucks off his overshirt and ties it around his waist.

 _Has anyone ever tried climbing to the top?_ The words linger in Thomas's mind, but he refuses to utter them.

“Hey, Newt?”

Newt hums and glances over at him, quirking an eyebrow.

Thomas hesitates momentarily, trying to figure out how to phrase his words. He has to get the idea in Newt’s head now, or else his plan to keep Ben from being Banished might not work.

“So you've got the rules, right? Well, what happens if someone breaks one of them?”

Newt frowns. “You'd better not be plannin’ on it.”

 _I mean, I_ was _, but I ran out of freaking time. Punching Ben in the face would've been a sure-fire way to keep him from going out in the Maze today._

“No, of course not!” Thomas says hastily. “I was just wondering how you reinforce them.”

“The shanks who break the rules get punished.”

Thomas lets out a long breath. “Right, but _how_?”

“They get...sent out into the Maze.” Newt shifts uncomfortably, and he suddenly refuses to meet Thomas's eye. “And...no one’s ever survived a night in the Maze. We call it a Banishing. Only ever done it twice.”

Thomas processes the words carefully. He looks at his hands. “Why? Why not give them a second chance?”

Because if Thomas deserves a second chance to fix all of his mistakes, surely Ben deserves a second chance at life.

Newt doesn't reply, and when Thomas looks back over at him, he sees that Newt has completely stopped working, staring unseeingly at the ground.

“Hey, Greenie?” Zart says, and wipes his brow, smearing dirt across his forehead. He remains oblivious to Newt’s sudden silence. “Do me a favor?”

Thomas looks at Newt. “What do you need?”

Zart pushes an empty, dirty bucket towards him. “Go get us some more fertilizer?”

Thomas pauses.

_Shit._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if these first few chapters seem rushed. I'm just excited to get to the good stuff!

The woods is somehow more ominous in the day than it had been at night.

Of course, that could be because Thomas is hyper-aware that he's going to be attacked any minute.

He steps into the small clearing that marks the graveyard. Either the Sloppers aren't keeping up with maintenance, or everyone avoids the place, because the crosses are all in various stages of brokenness. One, in particular, catches his eye.

The name George is carved deep into the rotting wood.

His blood runs cold.

_Brenda had a brother named George._

But there's no way it could be the same boy, right?

But, somehow, Thomas knows it is. And he feels an overwhelming wave of guilt crash over him for not realizing it sooner.

And while Thomas didn't go back far enough to get the opportunity to save him, he still feels like it's his fault.

Feels like everything’s his fault.

The clumsy footsteps and harsh, heavy breaths from behind him make Thomas pause. He straightens up from his crouch and turns around.

Thomas looks at Ben with a pained bitterness, taking in the veins warping his appearance and the dark, crazed eyes.

He looks like he's got the Flare.

“Ben, listen to me,” Thomas says urgently, “I know you think this is my fault and you—”

Ben screams and launches himself at Thomas. Thomas pivots and begins to run, flying through the trees without even a glance behind him.

Despite Thomas's speed, Ben catches up. Though Thomas supposes he shouldn't be surprised, he absolutely is when Ben tackles him from behind and sends both of them rolling down a small hill.

He staggers to his feet and holds his hands out placatingly. “Ben, listen, you need to calm down and let me explain—”

Ben is on his feet and throwing himself at Thomas in a flash.

Thomas runs, trying to think strategically but finding himself unable to think at all over his own rasping breaths.

The trees begin to thin, and Thomas can spot the Gardens. He shouts, knowing that Newt will come to his aid as soon as he breaks from the tree line.

Ben’s fingers catch the hem of Thomas's shirt and both of them crash to the ground. Thomas kicks at him, but Ben hardly responds to the blows, screaming and fighting to get his fingers around Thomas's throat.

The impact of the shovel against the side of Ben’s face makes Thomas wince, and he scrambles to his feet, still heaving for breath.

“Ben, what are you doing?” Newt hisses.

“What happened?”

Thomas looks up from where various Gladers—Newt included—have Ben pinned to the grass. Alby is staring at him, expression twisted in confusion.

“I… I don’t…” Thomas looks around, hoping for an answer to come to him. He can’t blame Ben. That would guarantee the boy a Banishment.

“What happened?” Alby asks again, anger seeping into his tone. Thomas doesn’t answer. Alby shakes his head and looks down at Ben, brow furrowed.

“I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Ben dissolves into sobs, and Thomas can’t stand the devastated look on Gally’s face.

Alby’s frown deepens. “Someone lift his shirt.”

Gally does.

“He’s been stung.”

“In the middle of the day?”

They stare at the blackened veins in silence.

Thomas shifts, glancing around the shell-shocked Gladers. “It was my fault.”

Newt looks up, incredulous. “Your fault?”

“That he attacked me, I mean,” Thomas hastens.

“How the bloody hell was it _your_ fault?”

“I…” And, for the life of him, Thomas can’t think of an answer.

“Greenie, I’ll talk with you later. Go wait at the Med-shack.” Alby gestures to Ben, expression troubled. “C’mon, let’s put him in the Pit.”

Thomas can hear Ben’s screams and cries all the way across the Glade. He sits outside the Med-shack. Chuck silently joins him and continues working on his figurine.

Thomas is oddly grateful for the company.

Two sets of footsteps approach and Thomas looks up to see Clint and Jeff locked in a hushed conversation.

Clint smiles at him. “You just keep getting into trouble, don’t you?” He shakes his head. “So, you hurt?”

“I think I'm fine.”

“Let me see,” Clint says, and tugs Thomas arm out to inspect a shallow cut. Clint hums. “We might have to amputate.”

Thomas furrows his brow.

Jeff laughs. “You _always_ want to amputate.”

Alby and Newt show up after another five minutes, though they don’t speak, allowing Clint and Jeff to work in silence.

“Well,” Jeff finally says, “you’ll live.”

Clint wraps the cut and waves him off. “Alby, he’s all yours.”

Chuck glances up from his carving for the first time, and Thomas notes the way his brows are pinched in worry.

Alby looks at him, eyes searching. He simply says, “Explain.”

And god, how Thomas _wants_ to. Wants to explain everything that’s going on. But he can’t.

“Alby,” he says, “what’s gonna happen to him?”

“He broke one of the few rules we have,” Alby states.

Thomas makes a noise of protest. “He was stung! He obviously wasn’t in control of himself. He’s never hurt someone before, has he?”

“No, but—”

“Exactly,” Thomas interrupts, gesturing frantically. “So, you can’t—”

“Greenie, cut it out,” Newt snaps. “Stop interrupting, just listen. We do things a certain way for a reason.”

“But he attacked _me_. So shouldn’t I be the one that gets a say in his punishment?”

Alby mutters a curse and walks off. Thomas, Newt, and Chuck watch him go.

“Listen, Thomas,” Newt finally says, turning back to him, “the rules are one of the only things keepin’ this place afloat. And you wanna break ‘em? For a guy that attacked you for no reason?”

Thomas snaps his head over to Newt. “Who said it was for no reason?”

Newt scowls. “Well, I’m gonna assume that unless you actually decide to tell us what bloody happened, shuck-face.”

“You can’t Banish him,” Thomas says. “Keep him in the Pit, I don’t care. But you can’t Banish him.”

The look on Newt’s face darkens. “And what if he tries to attack you again?”

Thomas hesitates. _I just need more time._

“If he tries to do it again, then fine. But at least give him a _chance_.”

“Why do you care so much?” Newt asks, his expression easing into something soft and confused.

“Just…trust me, okay?”

Newt stares at him.

“Um…” Chuck hesitates. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Thomas. Shouldn’t we at least give him a second chance? It’s not like he’s...well, sane.”

“Bloody fucking hell.” Newt rakes a hand through his hair. “You do realize there’s no cure, right?”

The words are said with such a certainty that it steals the breath from Thomas’s lungs. Newt continues, oblivious.

“There’s no cure for what Ben has. We’ve had boys get stung before. We let Ben out of the Pit, he’ll just attack someone else.”

Thomas swallows. _There_ is _a cure. And Ben can get it this time because I don’t have to sting myself for memories._

“No,” he manages. “You don’t know that.”

Newt mutters something under his breath.

“What?” Thomas asks, leaning closer. Newt snaps.

“I _do_ know that! I’ve seen it happen!”

“Just trust me? Please?” Thomas begs. He doesn’t know how else to convince him. “I promise, there’s still a chance for him.”

Newt’s eyes narrow. “You can’t promise something like that.”

Thomas clenches his jaw.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think I just did,” he says.

A raspy scoff escapes Newt’s parted lips and the anger visibly fades. Newt closes his eyes, and for half a second, Thomas catches a haunting brokenness shadowing his face. Then Newt blinks, and sets his mouth in a firm line, all signs of vulnerability gone.

“You know what? Fine. We’ll do it your way. But if someone gets hurt, it’s on _your_ head, not mine.”

“I get it,” Thomas nods, and he feels like he can finally breathe for the first time since he’s shown back up here. “Thanks, Newt.”

Newt shakes his head. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Chuck pipes up for the second time as Newt walks off toward the Homestead.

“That’s weird.”

Thomas tears his eyes away from Newt’s hitching stride to look at Chuck. “What’s weird?”

Chuck shrugs and returns to his carving, concentrating much harder than necessary. “Nothing, just…. Newt probably wouldn’t have agreed to that if anyone else had suggested it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Thomas asks, frowning.

Chuck shrugs again. “Nothing, I guess. It’s just interesting.”

Part of Thomas wants to pester him, to ask what he’s getting at, but then he spots Gally approaching.

Gally looks angry—but, in his defense, Gally _always_ looks angry—and Thomas really isn’t ready to deal with him just yet.

A muscle in Thomas's thigh tenses, urging him to stand and appear less cowardly. He doesn't move, just waits for Gally to come stomping over.

“What the  _hell_ , Greenie,” he snaps, stopping a few feet away with a deep glower on his face. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“Woah, hey, what're you blaming _me_ for?” Thomas says, tilting his head up to meet Gally’s glare.

“Ben wouldn't attack you for no reason. He wouldn't hurt anyone. Stung or not. And the entire way to the Pit, guess what he's screaming?”

Thomas thinks he knows.

“He’s screaming: ‘I saw him. He did this.’ All sorts of crazy stuff. And I…. He—” Gally’s chest heaves and he chokes on his words. Thomas is shocked by the sight of tears in Gally’s eyes.

“Hey, Gally—”

“No,” he rasps, and he glares through his tears. “Just... don't.”

Gally shakes his head and turns, heading in the direction of the Doors. For a brief, concerning moment, Thomas thinks he’s going to go out into the Maze, but then Gally veers off towards the Homestead.

Thomas rubs his eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

_And it’s not over yet. You’ve got until tomorrow night before the Doors shut to find an excuse to go into the Maze and kill a Griever. We’ll need the key to get the door open, and if Minho and Alby don’t go, then they won’t come back late, and I won’t have a reason to go running in._

“Fuck,” he swears softly. _How am I going to solve this one?_

* * *

The answer presents itself in the oddest of ways.

Thomas had been woken by Ben’s screams early in the morning, mingling with the grinding screech of the Doors opening. As such, he’d watched the Runners go out. Which is why, on his way over to Newt and Chuck, he nearly drops his lunch tray at the sight of Minho racing back through the Doors as if he's being chased, red-faced and wheezing. Minho braces his hands on his knees and bends over, his panting audible even from this distance.

Thomas stares for a moment, then turns and sets his food on the table, appetite long gone.

“Thomas, what…” Newt begins, but then he spots Minho as well.

Thomas doesn’t wait for Newt to get up. He races over to Minho, setting a hand on his shoulder and leaning down.

“You okay, man?” he asks.

Minho coughs and waves him off, shrugging Thomas’s hand from his shoulder. “Yeah, fine. Do me a favor and go get Alby, would ya?”

“Minho, what the bloody hell are you doing back?” Newt asks, slowing to a stop a few feet away.

The Runner doesn’t answer. The minutes creep, and slowly, Minho catches his breath, straightening up.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Look, just go get Alby. I don’t feel like explaining this twice.”

Thomas turns to go, only to see the man in question running over, Chuck not too far behind. _Chuck must’ve seen and gone straight to Alby. Smart kid._

“What’s going on?” Alby says, eyes flickering back and forth between Minho and Thomas and Newt. “What happened?”

Minho leans back against the wall of the Maze, smirking.

“I found a dead one.”

Alby frowns. “A dead what? Griever?”

Minho’s smirk evolves into a sly grin, teeth flashing. “Yep.”

Newt looks bewildered, but Thomas can’t help but be insanely curious. This was certainly a new development, and Thomas wants to know what triggered it.

“What do you mean?” he asks, and he can feel Alby’s gaze burning into him.

“I found a dead one,” Minho repeats. He wipes his forehead again. “Figured I’d come let you know instead of trying to mess with it first.”

“Smart move,” Alby agrees. “You ready to head back in there? Or do you wanna wait ‘til tomorrow? Your call.”

Minho takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, nodding. He cracks his neck. “Let’s go now. I want as much time to check this thing out as possible. It might not even be there tomorrow.”

Alby mutters something of an agreement and turns to Newt. “You’re in charge ‘til I get back.”

“Be careful,” Newt says, not even attempting to hide the worry in his voice. “Both of you.”

Minho claps him on the shoulder. “We’ll be back before you know it. Probably a few hours before dinner, even. It’s not like we’re planning to have a slumber party with the thing.”

Newt doesn’t even crack a smile.

“We’ll be fine,” Alby agrees. “See you in a bit.”

With that, Alby turns and jogs through the Doors. Minho gives Newt a mock salute. He looks at Thomas and winks. Then runs into the Maze.

Between the three of them, the silence is thick and pressing. Newt clears his throat.

“Well,” he says, voice shaking just slightly, “we’d better go eat, then back to work.”

As they walk back, Chuck leans over to Thomas and whispers, “I wonder what killed it.”

_Me too, man. Me too._

They settle down at the table, and Thomas picks at his food, still not particularly hungry. He rests his left hand in his lap and bounces his knee.

He tries not to think about the sense of foreboding that cloaks him like a shadow.

But the feeling follows him around the rest of the day, no matter how hard he tries to shake it. If anything, it gets worse.

_Something bad is going to happen. Something bad is going to happen._

Dinner comes and goes. They return to work.

_Something bad is going to happen._

One glance at Newt’s face shows that he’s thinking the same thing.

The rest of the Runners return in sets of two, as is custom.

A half an hour creeps by. Time itself feels as if it has slowed to a sluggish crawl. The Glade has plunged into a somber silence.

Thomas chops at the base of the tree trunk. Newt does, too.

Chuck carves.

Time passes.

Abruptly, Newt stops in the middle of his task and drops his machete, not uttering a single word as he stands and walks over to the Doors, joining a small group of Gladers already there.

Thomas exchanges a look with Chuck and the two of them follow wordlessly. Newt slips up to the front. Thomas and Chuck follow.

More and more boys join them. The Gladers pack together tightly, the boys in the back trying to see over the heads of the boys in the front, everyone trying to catch a glimpse of some sort of movement.

“They should’ve been back _hours_ ago,” Gally murmurs. Thomas is beside Newt, close enough that he feels the way Newt tenses.

“They’ll make it,” Thomas says, but the reassurance falls flat. Gally gives him a dirty look. Newt releases a shaky breath.

“Doors will be closin’ any minute now,” Newt says, voice oddly hollow.

_Come on, come on, come on…_

“There!” Chuck cries, taking a small step forward and pointing into the long corridor. Gally grabs Chuck’s arm and pushes him back.

Thomas stares at the hunched form of Minho, heaving Alby’s limp body along behind him. The Gladers explode, yelling words of encouragement and yelling for Minho to hurry.

 _I have to time it,_ he thinks.

A sharp squeal escapes the gears along the Doors. They begin closing in, a low rumbling sound.

The Gladers’ screams get louder. But even then, Thomas catches Newt’s horrified whisper.

“They’re not gonna make it.”

Newt grabs his hand. Thomas lets him. He leans forward, eying the Doors, which seem to be increasing speed.

Minho loses his grip on Alby and both of them hit the ground.

_Come on, come on, come on…_

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, squeezing Newt’s hand once before letting go. He wants to say more. He runs into the Maze instead.

He feels Newt’s fingers grasp at the back of his shirt.

He hears Chuck scream, “Thomas, no!”

And he slips through the gap, staggering forward from his momentum.

The Doors seal behind him, an echoing crunch, a grinding sound that could’ve easily been his bones. Thomas shudders at the thought.

“You _stupid_ fucking shank. Why would you…. _Stupid_. Well, good job, anyway. You just killed yourself.”

Thomas frowns at Minho. He approaches, eying Alby cautiously.

“What happened to him?” he asks, searching for an injury.

There. On the side of his head. A raised lump, the area around it bloodied.

Just like last time.

“He got stung,” Minho says, his words followed by a hacking cough.

_Maybe some things just have to happen. Regardless of what I do to change them._

The idea does not sit comfortably with Thomas.

So, with slight difficulty, he shrugs it off.

“Let me guess: Griever wasn't dead?” Thomas says.

“Oh, it was dead. Its little buddy sure wasn’t, though. We weren’t expecting a live one to be with it.” Minho wipes at his forehead, leaving behind a streak of dirt. “Doesn't matter anymore. We’ll all be Griever chow in a few hours. Maybe less.”

“Don't think like that,” Thomas says, near pleading. The sun is setting and they need to get Alby up the wall, before they run out of time.

“Why? It's the truth. We're already dead.”

“We don't have to be,” Thomas points out.

Minho laughs. It's a croaking, rusty sound. He drops his head down between his knees, making no attempt whatsoever to get up. “Greenie, do you know _anything_? No one survives a night in the Maze.”

Thomas closes his eyes briefly. “Okay. What about Alby?”

Minho grunts. “What about him?”

“We can't just leave him here!” Thomas says in exasperation, throwing his arms out.

“Why not?”

Thomas regrets his next words before he even utters them.

“Think about Newt.”

Minho raises his head. His eyes narrow. As Thomas had expected, Minho stands, leaning against the wall to help support his exhausted body.

“‘Think about Newt’?” Minho echoes. He scoffs, then fumes silently, shaking his head. “You don't know _anything_. Okay? You don't know me and you sure as hell don't know Newt.”

Thomas begs to differ, but knows better than to vocalize such things. Especially now, when night is falling and time is waning.

“Just…. Don't you think it'd be better to at least give him a _chance_ to live?”

Minho presses his lips together and stares at Alby’s prone form. Then looks up at Thomas, gaze calculating.

“What did you have in mind?”

“The wall,” Thomas replies quickly. “We get some ivy around him, pull him up there as high as we can.”

Minho nods, slowly. “Okay…. But the second a Griever comes around that corner, you two are on your own.”

“Deal.” _I managed just fine last time, this shouldn't be much different._

The process of hauling Alby up the wall is much more difficult than Thomas recalls it being. Perhaps in part to his lack of focus, and perhaps in part to...well, his lack of focus.

He’s caught up in trying to remember exactly which twists and turns he took to evade the Griever and end up with Minho last time, but it’s a bit hard to recall such specifics after so many months.

A piercing, screeching whirr reaches them down the corridor. Thomas and Minho lock eyes.

“Good luck, Greenie.”

“Minho, don't—”

But it's too late. Minho releases his grip on the vine and Thomas is yanked forward, feet losing traction on the ground. He digs in, the vine burning into his palms and his shoulders straining.

“Minho!”

Thomas looks over his shoulder to catch the Runner sprinting around the corner, without even a glance back.

Another warbling screech rings through the air. Closer this time.

_Shit shit shit shit shit shit—_

“Shit shit shit shit,” he mutters under his breath, bracing himself and pulling the vine back down with all the strength he can muster. He swings himself into a small gap underneath the wall, hidden by the overhanging ivy.

He finishes tying the vine off just as the Griever enters the corridor. Thomas closes his eyes and listens.

 

_click click whirrrrr_

 

_click whirrr click click click_

 

The sounds halt for a brief second, and Thomas holds his breath.

But then they continue, fading as the Griever leaves.

_At least I didn't cut it as close this time._

He slides out of his makeshift hiding space, pushing himself up.

Thomas takes a deep breath, and he turns back to look at the huge, looming Doors. The only thing keeping him cut off from the Gladers. From Chuck. From Newt.

He shakes his head to clear it.

And he runs.

* * *

His body relaxes into the familiar thrum of his heart and slap of his feet against the smooth stone floor. An hour passes without even a glimpse of a Griever. It gets dark.

Another hour passes, to Thomas’s rough estimation. He hasn’t seen Minho, either.

_He’s probably fine._

A shriek of a Griever slices through the silence, bouncing off the walls like mad laughter. Thomas stops.

And nearly gets tackled by Minho, running so fast he looks almost to be flying. Minho slows down just enough to grab Thomas’s wrist, then starts hauling ass once more.

Thomas looks past Minho and spots the Griever not far behind.

“Run!”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. In the darkness, it’s impossible to tell where in the Maze they even are. Minho might know, but Thomas sure as hell doesn’t, so he only hopes that Minho takes him the same route as the first time.

He does.

“Come on, follow me!” Minho shouts, not that Thomas has much of a choice with the death-grip on his wrist. “This section’s closing, come on. We can lose it down here.”

Thomas rips his arm from Minho’s grasp, but continues running, falling steadily behind. Minho doesn’t look back until he reaches the end of the corridor. He stumbles to a halt.

The left wall of the corridor groans, then begins closing in.

“Thomas, what are you waiting for? Get out of there!”

The Griever screams, and Thomas turns to see as it rounds the last corner.

_Come on… come on._

The Griever steps.

Stops.

Steps.

Thomas waits, ignoring Minho’s yells.

To Thomas’s dismay, the Griever doesn’t rush at him.

It steps.

And stops.

And steps.

So Thomas waits.

He waits.

He waits….

He waits too long.

Thomas turns back to the closing section, prepared to put on a burst of speed and crush the Griever between the compressing walls, only to see the gap is much smaller than he expected.

_I won’t make it._

Minho seems to realize this at the same time Thomas does.

“Go around it and meet me! Take two lefts, a right, a left—”

But he’s cut off by the rumbling bang of the walls closing together.

The Griever roars behind him.

Thomas runs.

Another Griever joins in the chase at some point.

He alternates, running and getting far enough ahead to lose them, then hiding, be it behind a curtain of vines or around the corner of another wall, in the shadows.

And somehow, _somehow_ , he makes it to morning. Part of him wonders if that’s thanks to WCKD. He just hopes that Minho had the same luck.

The Grievers leave him alone as soon as the darkness begins to ease up, replaced by a steadily growing light. The one that had been pursuing him just...disappears.

When there’s enough light to see the numbers on the walls, Thomas finds himself to be in Section Four. He doesn’t know shit about the rotations of Section Four.

His hands shake and his mind is glazed over with exhaustion.

He perks up at the rumble of the Doors opening.

It takes him far too long to find his way to them, and he doesn’t come across a Runner the whole way. The sun is high in the sky and it’s probably around noon before Thomas recognizes some of the wider hallways and the patterns of the ivy.

He turns another corner, shoulder smacking against the wall from turning too soon, and stops. He stares at the Glade.

Chuck leaps up from his post in front of the Doors, his face paling.

“Holy shit," Chuck whispers. "Guys, he’s back!”

“Hey Chuck,” Thomas says, smiles, and promptly loses consciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

“Holy shit, you're awake already?”

Thomas blinks and turns his head. Newt looms over him, surprise evident in the twitch of his left brow.

“How long was I out?” Thomas asks, and he winces at the soreness of his throat, pushing himself up to a sitting position.

“Not long enough,” comes Clint’s resounding voice, clearly attempting to scold, but failing to do so. “You really should go back to sleep.”

“How long?” Thomas persists. _Please say she hasn't shown up yet..._

“Only an hour or so. It's just about time for lunch, actually,” Clint informs.

Thomas relaxes, a wave of relief washing over him.

“You plannin’ on going back to sleep?”

Thomas hums at the question, squinting at Newt. “Don't think so.”

Newt nods as if expecting this. He then turns to Clint, and Thomas catches a small flash of an eye-roll directed at him.

“Of course bloody not,” Newt says. “Clint, go bring him some food then, yeah?”

Thomas makes a noise of protest. “I'm fine, I can do it myself.”

Newt laughs. Actually laughs.

Thomas would be downright insulted, if he isn't too busy focusing on the way Newt’s face lights up, that concerned frown leaving for just a moment and replaced with a toothy grin and bright eyes, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth.

Happiness.

“Oh, you're too funny,” Newt cackles, eyes still brimming with mirth. “You just survived a night in the _Maze_. And you expect me to let you out of that bed within the next lifetime?”

“I'm fine,” Thomas grumbles.

“And I,” Newt smirks, “don't care.”

“That's not even fair,” Thomas mutters, but he can't even keep the exasperated smile off his face. He turns, legs dangling over the edge of the bed.

Newt takes a seat in a chair next to Thomas’s bedside.

Clint makes some comment about leaving. Thomas doesn't bother to listen to it, caught up in the way that Newt leans just the slightest bit forward, brown eyes locked on Thomas’s. The brightness of those eyes hardens just the tiniest bit, overcome with something more serious.

“Listen here,” Newt says, and he pokes Thomas's chest with a finger. “I want to make it clear that what you did? It's not gonna be without consequences. You _did_ break our number one rule.”

“But–”

“But _listen_ , I’m not done. You broke our number one rule,” Newt continues. A small, almost hesitant smile graces his lips. “And for that, I have to thank you, Tommy.”

The old nickname strikes Thomas like a hammer between the ribs, and his breath catches as the memory crashes over him.

_“Please. Please, Tommy. Please…”_

_A flash of dark, soulless eyes._

_Black veins crawling up a pale throat._

_Face twisted in rage._

_Screaming._

_Screaming, screaming, screaming._

_Thank you for being my friend._

He squeezes his eyes shut. He reaches, unthinkingly, for the only thing Newt left him. But the necklace is gone.

It's gone.

Fingers curl around his wrists, slowly, gently, pulling his hands away from the collar of his shirt.

A breath rushes from his lungs.

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” Thomas rasps, blinking rapidly against the sudden onslaught of tears. “I just wasn't expecting.... I’m fine.”

Newt says nothing.

He only takes one of Thomas's shaking hands between his own, squeezes gently, and waits for the trembling to subside.

Then he takes Thomas's other hand and repeats the process.

Finally, Newt meets his eyes. Thomas sees the unspoken question there.

And he caves.

“Listen, I need to tell you something,” he begins.

Newt waits, patiently silent.

Thomas is just wondering where to start when a heavy, purposeful knock thuds against the closed door. Why had Clint deemed it necessary to shut the door on his way out?

Irritation flits across Newt’s face.

“Come in,” he announces, and he turns away from Thomas.

Clint elbows the door open, and Thomas looks into the hall, realizing for the first time that he is definitely not in the Med-shack.

“Why am I in the Homestead?” he asks, his gaze moving towards the tray of food in Clint’s hands.

“Wanted you to get as much sleep as possible,” Clint explains. “Jeff’s got his hands full with Alby right now, and he's been screamin’ ever since we dragged him back here.”

Thomas perks up. “You found Alby?”

And then.

“What about Minho? Is he back? Is he okay?”

Newt raises a hand placatingly. “Minho’s just fine. In fact, he was just waiting on the other side of the Doors when they opened. He showed us Alby and asked about you. Well, you weren't back. So we just assumed…. Anyway, Minho was pretty upset about it.”

“Then Chuck started screaming bloody murder,” Clint cuts in, setting the tray of food in Thomas's lap. “He started yelling and everyone came running. And there you are, laying on the ground, looking dead as could be. So we lugged you in here, cleaned you up, and told everyone to leave you alone until you were rested enough.”

“How is Alby, by the way?” Newt asks.

“He’s doing rough. You’re definitely gonna have to lead the Gathering,” Clint says.

Thomas bites into his sandwich and listens in silence as Clint and Newt’s conversation diverges.

“Have you heard from Glenn?” Clint questions.

“Not in a little while,” comes Newt’s reply. “But I do know that Minho’s spoken to him and the rest of the Runners about it. They don’t really want to head back out, not for a few days, at least. Not that I can really blame ‘em, after last night.”

Newt glances at him. Thomas smiles sheepishly.

“Anyways,” Newt continues, rolling his eyes, “Clint, you want to go get everyone together for the Gathering? Ya know, since this shank refuses to get some more rest.”

“Hey,” Thomas protests, “I’m right here.”

Clint laughs. “I’ve got it.”

Newt quirks an eyebrow at Thomas. “Oh, so now you _want_ to sleep.”

“Be back in ten,” Clint says, and he ducks out of the room.

“I didn’t say that,” Thomas protests. “It’s just that you were talking about me as if I wasn’t even here.”

“Aww, did I hurt your feelings?” Newt says mockingly. “Want me to hold your hand? Kiss it all better, maybe?”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “I’m good, thanks.”

Newt grins, folding his arms across his chest. “You sure? It’s a one-time offer, you know.”

“I’m good,” Thomas repeats with a laugh. He sets his tray of half-eaten food on the sheets beside him and slides off the bed. For the first time since waking up, he feels the effects from last night. His entire lower body hurts, from his thighs to the arches of his feet.

“I’m so sore,” he complains.

“Well, I’d offer to give you a massage, but, as I said, it was a one-time offer. Guess you lost your chance,” Newt says, and he attempts to keep a straight face.

“I’ll just ask Clint,” Thomas says pointedly. “Hey, Clint, would you…”

Clint isn’t in the room. Thomas looks around, blinking.

“He left? When did he leave?”

Newt just laughs.

“C’mon, then. We should head down to the Council Hall before everyone else gets here. Don’t want to keep ‘em waiting,” he says.

Thomas gestures toward the door. “Lead the way.”

He follows Newt down the rickety flight of stairs and into the large main room.

The room is bright, highlighted with the occasional sharp knife of sunlight that has managed to find its way through the gaps in the crudely-made roof.

Gally is already there, in the company of Winston, Minho, Fry, and Zart. Minho spots Thomas and immediately his face breaks out into a wide grin.

“Hey, it’s the man of the hour!” he declares. “How you feelin’, Greenie?”

“Tired,” Thomas answers truthfully. “Sore.”

Minho gives an over-exaggerated sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good. Makes me feel better about myself. At least we know you’re a _little_ bit human.”

Newt snorts. Thomas turns towards the sound.

Newt has positioned himself so that his face is caught in a ray of light, turning his blond hair into a glowing white halo, the ends dipped in gold. His eyes are no longer a deep, almost black color, but a warm brown about four shades lighter. It somehow makes his gaze even more intense.

Thomas adverts his gaze, thinks desperately for something else to focus on. Something more important.

_We have a limited amount of time. If the timing is right, Teresa should be showing up in the middle of the meeting._

Of that, Thomas is _almost_ certain. The details are foggy. It's been a long time.

Thomas feels incredibly old.

The Gladers filter into the Council Hall in small groups, steadily filling the room to its capacity.

Newt picks at his nails. Thomas tries to put a name to each face in the crowd of boys.

“Alright, you lot,” Newt calls, and the quiet murmurs of conversation dwindle. “The Gathering is now in session.”

Thomas doesn't even have to look to know when Newt rolls his eyes.

“Things are changing,” Gally begins, stepping forward. “There's no denying that. First, Ben gets stung in broad daylight. And then Alby.”

Thomas isn't swimming in déjà vu, he's drowning in it.

But then Gally stops. His eyes fall on Thomas.

“I think our Greenie here has something to do with all of this. He violated our rules by going into the Maze.”

“He saved Alby,” Frypan cuts in. “I don't think y'all should just ignore that.”

A distant scream rips through the low murmurs of the Council Hall, silencing the Gladers.

Ben.

Gally’s brow furrows, but it's a different Glader that speaks, one that Thomas doesn’t know the name of.

“Hey, I know it's not really what we're talking about right now, but...it kind of _is._ Why haven't we Banished Ben?” he asks. Everyone looks to Newt, including Thomas. The Glader hesitates, then continues. “I mean, it’s not something we’ve ever done before. When someone breaks the rules, it’s always been an automatic Banishment. And now the Greenie has done it too, and we’re not going to Banish him either?”

“Slim it, Aidan,” Minho says, scowling into the crowd of boys. “You’re not the leader here.”

“No, he’s got a right to ask,” Newt says. He rubs his hands together. “Listen, it’s been three years since we’ve been sent up here. I know we’re pretty strict in our ways and all, but Alby and I agreed that maybe it was time to try something new.”

Newt doesn’t mention that the whole thing was Thomas’s idea, for which Thomas is immensely grateful.

“Now,” Newt says, clearing his throat, “onto the problem at hand? Minho, you were there with him. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Minho tilts his head in thought. “I think the shank saved Alby’s life. He survived a night in the Maze. I say we make him a Runner.”

“A Runner,” Gally states. Then scoffs. “Minho, _you_ survived out there too!”

Minho takes an abrupt step towards Gally. “Listen here, slinthead, I’ve been here _three_ _years_. I know the Maze like the back of my shuck hand. Thomas? That was his first time ever out there. Clearly he has what it takes to–”

The sudden wailing of the Greenie alarm cuts Minho off. Thomas’s stomach drops at the sound. The Gladers exchange confused looks.

Newt looks at Thomas, then hurries outside. Thomas hastens after him, but Chuck grabs his arm before he can catch up.

“The Box, it’s coming back up,” Chuck says, gaping over at the clearing.

“It shouldn’t be,” Minho says as he squeezes past. Thomas looks down at Chuck, who seems frozen to the ground.

“Come on,” he urges, and he pulls Chuck towards the Box and the gathering crowd of eager boys.

Thomas pushes to the front of the crowd, bringing Chuck with him.

The alarm finally silences. Newt and Gally grab at either side of the Box doors and heft them open. Newt jumps down.

“Newt, what do you see?” Frypan calls.

The clamor rises as the boys attempt to shout over each other.

Newt straightens, silencing them all.

Thomas just stares down at her slack face, throat tightening against the sudden feeling of sickness rising in his stomach.

“It’s a girl,” Newt says, voice soft, yet echoing the confusion on the faces of the Gladers. “I think she’s dead.”

“What’s in her hand?” Gally prompts, nodding towards the note.

Thomas mouths the words just as Newt reads them.

“‘She’s the last one… ever.’” He looks up, baffled. “Well, what the hell does that mean?”

Time slows to a sluggish crawl.

Her eyes flutter open, a piercing blue that cuts right through him.

Her chest heaves.

“Thomas…” she rasps, and her eyes drift shut.

Thomas sucks in a breath and looks up, and time resumes it’s accelerated pulse.

The Gladers are, of course, staring at him.

Gally keeps the snarky comments to himself this go around.

Everything feels just off-kilter enough for Thomas to notice it, but not know what to do about it. He hardly registers the hand on his arm as Newt orders a few Gladers to grab her and take her to the Med-shack. As the crowd begins to disperse, Minho guides him over to the Med-shack. Thomas feels as if his body is on autopilot, disconnected from him. His thoughts playing on the same loop of watching Teresa’s eyes open.

“Thomas?”

He blinks and the dreamlike feeling leaves, reality crashing back over him. He looks over to see Clint and Jeff hovering above Teresa’s prone form. Someone grabs Thomas’s shoulder and shakes him.

“Dude, you good?” Minho asks. Thomas frowns at him, shrugging his hand off.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he says, gaze jumping from Teresa to Minho, to Newt hanging back in the doorway. Newt’s face is steely, betraying nothing.

Minho frowns.

Newt nudges his way towards the bed. He gestures to her. “Jeff, what’s the matter with her? Why won’t she wake up?”

Jeff raises his hands defensively. “Hey man, I got my job the same way you did.”

Finally, Newt looks at him. His gaze is flinty, calculating.

“Do you recognize her?” he asks.

Thomas’s hands are starting to shake. He shoves them into his pockets and his breath hitches. “No.”

Newt’s eyebrow slants upward. “Really?” he says in obvious disbelief. “Because she sure seemed to recognize you.”

Thomas opens his mouth, but his false confidence breaks and all that escapes is a choked whimper of sound. Even he can hear how pathetic it sounds.

Thomas turns around and shoves past Minho. He ducks outside, pace quickening with each step.

He doesn't make it far before someone is grabbing him by the shoulder, fingers digging into his skin, and turning him around.

Newt’s eyes are hard.

“Come with me.” His voice is cold and brooks no room for argument.

Thomas turns around and begins walking back toward the Doors.

The hand clasps around his shoulder a second time, but the hard grip loosens almost immediately. A light touch trails down his arm, so gentle that Thomas falters, pausing mid-stride.

The fingers curl around his wrist, and Newt’s grip tightens to the point of pain.

“Come with me. _Right_ now.”

He doesn't even give Thomas a chance to speak before pulling him away from the front of the Med-shack and towards the Deadheads.

Newt weaves through the undergrowth and over fallen branches with a gracefulness that Thomas can't match, and each time Thomas stumbles, Newt’s fingers tighten around his wrist and he pulls him along.

At the brisk pace they're going, they get to the far corner of the Deadheads—where the walls meet—in less than ten minutes. Despite it being around mid-day, the trees block out much of the sunlight, making it a fair bit darker in the secluded little area.

Newt stops. His hold on Thomas's wrist doesn't falter.

Thomas furrows his brow and hesitates. “...Newt, what the hell are you–”

Newt whirls around on him so quickly that Thomas doesn't even think to move. His fingers curl around the fabric of Thomas's shirt and he shoves him back against the wall.

Newt stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing in anger.

Thomas’s mind blanks, frozen in shock.

“Listen, Tommy, and listen closely,” Newt says, and his voice has a barely perceptible tremble to it. “There's something different about you, I could tell that much from the get-go. And truth be told, I don't _care_ whether you worked with the Creators or not. Because that was before.”

Newt gets closer, somehow, and jabs a finger in his face. His eyes glint with something dangerous. “But this is now. And if _any_ of my boys get hurt because of you and your idiocy, you'll have _me_ to bloody answer to. You get me?”

Thomas swallows, throat suddenly dry. He has only been on the receiving end of Newt’s anger like this once before. When Newt had the Flare.

“Yeah, okay,” Thomas says, eyes locked with Newt’s. It's because of this intense concentration that he notices the way Newt’s jaw clenches and his eyes narrows almost imperceptibly.

“And as for the girl–”

“I get it, okay?” Thomas says, heart in his throat. Somehow it always comes back to Teresa.

_Why?_

“Oh, _do_ you?” Newt says in mock surprise.

“Newt–”

“No, I mean, _you get it_ , right Thomas? So obviously there's nothing else that needs to be said.”

“Newt, I–”

“Bloody hell, it's not like–”

“Stop!” Thomas shouts. His resolve splinters as his voice cracks and collapses in on itself, suddenly akin to the small, vulnerable plead of a child. “ _Please, just stop_.”

Newt falters. His expression softens, as does his grip on Thomas’s shirt. He takes a small step back, leaves crackling under the soles of his shoes.

“Look, I’m just…” Thomas takes a breath, exhaling shakily. “I’m just overwhelmed right now, I’m sorry.”

Newt shakes his head. “No, _I’m_ sorry. You haven’t done anything to harm us. I suppose I’m just worried about Alby, is all.”

A long silence fills the empty space between them. A slight frown creases Newt’s brow.

“Hey, you said you wanted to tell me something? This morning?” Newt prompts.

Thomas glances at the trees nearest to them. While he doesn’t see the beetle blades, he knows they’re there.

“I can’t,” Thomas finally says, and the half-hopeful look on Newt’s face vanishes. “I’m sorry.”

Newt sighs heavily. “No, it’s alright. We’d better be gettin’ back, anyhow. I’m sure Minho’s tearin’ it up out there looking for us.”

“Probably,” Thomas agrees.

The begin the slow walk back to the Homestead, Newt leading and Thomas following behind.

He thinks back to Teresa, lying unconscious in the Med-shack. He thinks about the dead Griever that Minho found, and the key inside it.

“Hey, Newt?” he says hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got to go back out there.”

Newt stops so abruptly that Thomas bumps into him. He takes a hasty step back, and Newt turns around, eyebrows high on his forehead.

“Excuse me?”

Thomas gnaws his bottom lip and tries to put together a decent way of explanation. “Look…. You said that no one’s ever seen a Griever and lived to tell about it, right?”

Newt nods stiffly.

“Well,” Thomas continues, “the one Minho found is still out there, completely untouched. There’s got to be something there worth looking at.”

“You don’t even know where the bloody thing is!” Newt argues. “And besides, who says it means anything? It could just be the Creators tryin’ to screw with our heads.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Thomas says.

Newt sighs and presses his thumbs against his temples. “You’re quite the headache, Tommy.”

Thomas opens his mouth, but Newt shushes him.

“ _But_ , you’re right. It wouldn’t make sense not to go check things out. I don’t want you going alone, though. Take Minho with ya. And a few others, if they’re willing. And I want you back well-before sundown.”

“Of course.”


End file.
